might have postponed
the elopement for one day." A confused noise interrupted his meditations.
Some ten yards from him a man roughly clad, but with the immense muscular
development of the Arri Furnese Apollo, was engaged in fighting three
bargees at once. As Sir WELFORARD stepped forward, this individual struck a
terrible blow. His ponderous fist, urged by the force of a thirty-inch
biceps, crashed through the chest of his first foe, severed the head of the
second from his body, and struck the third, a tall man, full in the
midriff, propelling him through the air into the middle of the river.
"That's enough for one day," he said, as with an air of haughty melancholy
he removed his clay-pipe from his mouth. His face seemed familiar to Sir
WELFORARD. Who could he be? All doubt was removed when he advanced, grasped
Sir WELFORARD by the hand, and, in tones broken with emotion, said, "Don't
you recognise me? I am your old College chum, Viscount STONYBROKE."

CHAPTER IV.

"SAVED! Saved!" shouted Sir WELFORARD, joyously--"there is yet time!" Then,
rushing into rhyme, he asked, "Will you row in the race, In PODOPHLIN'S
place?"

[Illustration: Touching Finale.]

"Will I row in the race?" repeated Lord STONYBROKE--"just won't I!" And,
without removing his hobnails, or his corduroys, he sprang lightly into the
Oxbridge racing-boat. The rest is soon told. In less time than it takes to
narrate the story, the Camford lead was wiped out. The exertion proved too
much for seven men in the Oxbridge Crew, but the gigantic strength of the
eighth, Lord STONYBROKE, was sufficient of itself to win the race by fifty
lengths. And that night, when the Prime Minister handed to him the reward
of victory in the shape of a massive gold dessert service, he was also able
to announce that the STONYBROKE estates and the STONYBROKE title had been,
by the Monarch's command, restored to their original possessor, as a reward
of conspicuous valour and strength. [THE END.]

* * * * *

[Illustration: THE HOUSE OF COMMONS WAX-WORKS. THE CHIEF GROUPS.]

* * * * *

Walt Whitman.

"The good grey Poet" gone! Brave, hopeful WALT!
He might not be a singer without fault,
And his large rough-hewn rhythm did not chime
With dulcet daintiness of time and rhyme.
He was no neater than wide Nature's wild,
More metrical than sea-winds. Culture's child,
Lapped in luxurious laws